


A Gift For Demeter

by Lennelle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Brain Damage, Canon-Typical Violence, Community: ohsam, Drug Addict Castiel, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, OhSam Birthday Celebration 2017, POV Castiel, Permanent Injury, Seizures, Speech Disorders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 10:12:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10784766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lennelle/pseuds/Lennelle
Summary: In which Dean was not killed by Lucifer in the showdown of 2014. In which Dean got his hands on an archangel blade. In which Lucifer is dead and Sam is, miraculously, still living. In which Sam tries his best to grow plants in the dried-up earth.





	A Gift For Demeter

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own.
> 
> Written for ohsam's Celebrating Sam 2017. Based on balder12's prompt 'pomegranate'.

In many cultures and religions, the pomegranate is a symbol of fertility, life and rebirth.

In Ancient Greek mythology, the pomegranate is an important part of the story of Persephone and her marriage to Hades, the god of the Underworld. Persephone was kidnapped by Hades and taken to the underworld to be his wife. Demeter, the goddess of fertility, was Persephone’s mother and when she thought her daughter was lost, she went into mourning and all things on earth ceased to grow. Zeus demanded Hades release Persephone, but Hades tricked her into eating six pomegranate seeds. Eating something from the Underworld means you cannot leave. Because she ate six seeds, she was to remain with Hades for six months of the year, spending the rest with her mother. The months she spent with her mother (spring and summer) meant crops flourished and the earth was full of life, and her time spent in the Underworld (autumn and winter) meant the earth was cold and lifeless. People would offer pomegranates to Demeter in prayer for fertile land.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s a quiet morning and, naturally, everyone is on edge. Quiet doesn’t come by so often anymore. Quiet usually means a storm is on its way, or a band of Croats. Dean’s jaw is wired tighter than usual, his constantly furrowed brow is dipped lower than ever. He marches around camp with his fingers on the hilt of his gun, barking orders at anyone and everyone, including the children.

Cas sits on the porch of his cabin and flicks his thumb across his lighter, watching the flame dance for a second before disappearing. He wishes he could use his lighter to actually light something, but he’s out of anything good to smoke, including cigarettes. He’s contemplating a risky run alone into town for them but he knows Dean would beat his ass if he tried.

His hands are getting restless, there’s a tight and impatient feeling sitting in his gut and he wonders if he’s desperate enough to steal from their medical supply again. He sits on that thought for a moment, brushing the pad of his index finger over the soft, flickering flame of his lighter.

“You just gonna sit there while the rest of us keep this place running?” Dean barks. He’s standing at the bottom of the steps to Cas’ cabin, looking less than pleased, with a machete in his hand. Anyone else in the camp would be scared out of their panties, Cas just laughs at him.

“That was the plan,” he says.

Dean’s mouth twitches and Cas knows he’s trying not to smile. Dean trudges up the steps and hands over the machete, handle first.

“We need more fire wood,” he says. It’s an order, plain and simple. Even Cas can’t say no.

“As you wish, fearless leader,” he answers with a small bow. He takes the blade and shoves his lighter back in his pocket. Dean turns to leave but Cas catches his shoulder. He’s as surprised as Dean is. The two of them don’t talk very often anymore, Dean’s too busy keeping everyone alive and Cas is too busy feeling like shit.

“Yeah?” Dean says.

“Uh.” Cas quickly lets go. “If you’re making a supply run any time soon and see a pack of cigarettes…”

Dean nods. “Sure. Why not? Only if I see any.”

And then he’s gone, marching across camp to yell at someone else. Cas takes the steps one at a time, swinging the blade in his hand. He feels queasy, but that’s nothing new, and his head aches, eyes burning in the sunlight. Once, thousands of years ago, he visited the sun. Basked in the beauty of it, listened to its stories, felt the comforting warmth of it. Now, with his human soul, it hurts his eyes and burns his skin. He sweats, dampness sticking his hair to his forehead. He reaches up and tugs on a dark strand. He needs a haircut.

There’s a wire fence running along the perimeter of the camp with a few men and women guarding it at all hours, even in the blistering heat or the pouring rain – not that there’s been much rain in a long while since the sun seems to have made it her personal mission to dry them all out.

Ever since Lucifer fizzled out of existence and the demons went bat-shit, Dean decided they were all moving south for the winter. Blistering heat and dried up riverbeds have to be better than freezing to death in the north, that’s what Cas keeps telling himself. Judging by the sleepless look in Dean’s eyes, he’s questioning his choice.

Cas grabs a wheelbarrow from beside the pig pen. The animals are all slumped on their sides in the shade, huffing into the dirt and stinking up the place. Cas watches them swat at flies with their curled tails for a moment before he hauls the cart up and pushes it towards the gate.

“Dean wants fire wood,” Cas says. It’s the password. ‘Dean says…’ and you get whatever you want. Cas doesn’t know the name of the kid at the gate but he’s seen him around plenty of times. He used to be a wiry little thing, all elbows and knees, but he’s sprouted up over the past few months and Dean has promoted him from dinner duty to guard duty – meanwhile, Cas has been demoted to collecting firewood. The kid wears his pride like a badge, standing up straight with his chest puffed out, an easy smile on his face as he lets Cas by. He reminds Cas a little of Dean from a long time ago.

It's nice getting out of the camp, away from everyone. People still bother Cas, even confuse him sometimes, being one of them now doesn’t change that. Here in the forest, things make more sense. He’s seen great oaks like this grow from seed to what they are now, he knew their language, he’s felt the life of them pulsing vibrant and green into the earth. Now, the forest is quiet. He hears nothing. The ground is hard and dry, dust kicks up in his wake. The highest reach of the trees is bare, leaves curling up and dropping down to die ahead of their time. High above, birds soar northward.

There are times he wishes he could shed this human skin. He misses his wings. He misses the freedom of flight. Being stuck on two legs is like being chained in place.

He finds the fallen trunk of a small tree after about a half an hour of wandering, it’s dried out and bare, never had a chance to grow high enough or dig its roots deep enough. He pulls out the machete and gets to work hacking away at the branches. By the time he’s done, his hands are blistered and the wheelbarrow is half full. Dean is probably expecting him to fill it. What’s left of this tree trunk is too thick for him to break on his own with his trembling hands, and Cas keeps moving deeper into the trees. It’s darker here where the sun can’t reach, a blessed relief from the constant heat.

He wanders off the trail a bit, and the wheelbarrow shudders along over the roots of trees that have webbed out across the forest floor. He finds another fallen tree and hacks away at the branches, filling the wheelbarrow to the brim. He gets to his feet, joints clicking, and glances around. He’s not familiar with this part of the forest, and he wonders if he’s gotten himself lost. He doesn’t remember how long he’d been walking, or why he came in this direction. There’s something niggling at the back of his mind, like there’s something he should be noticing but isn’t.

A sound cuts through the trees and Cas freezes. He grips the machete tighter and listens. Someone is laughing. He follows the sound, the wheelbarrow left behind. He recognises the laugh, one he hasn’t heard in a long time and one he didn’t think he’d hear again. He finds Sam on his knees, up to his elbows in dirt.

Sam looks up and sees Cas, smiling like he’d expected him to be there, the bandage over his left eye crinkles as his face shifts with another joyous laugh. He points enthusiastically into a small cluster of rocks and Cas joins him on the ground. There’s a little green sapling, bright and healthy, sprouting up from the parched soil.

“Would you look at that,” Cas mutters, glancing around. He breaks into a grin. “Must mean there’s water somewhere near here. Good job.”

Sam ducks his head and wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, still smiling. Cas hasn’t seen Sam smile in years, the last time must have been well before he said yes to Lucifer. It’s a wonderful thing to see. He pats Sam on the shoulder.

“This could mean something. We should tell Dean.”

Sam’s smile drops and he looks away, the tips of his fingers reaching up to touch the bandage over his eye. He stops himself before he can get dirt all over the fabric.

Mentioning Dean to Sam is almost as difficult as mentioning Sam to Dean. The two of them mostly ignore each other – well, Dean ignores Sam and Sam just doesn’t speak much anyway. He keeps to himself, would probably disappear altogether if he could, if Cas and some of the others would let him. Cas thinks Dean wouldn’t mind if Sam disappeared, and that’s probably the most tragic thing to happen since the world ended.

“I’ve got some firewood I need to take back to camp,” Cas changes the subject. “You coming?”

Sam doesn’t answer, but he gets to his feet when Cas does and he trails after him like a lost puppy back the way he came. The wheelbarrow is still sitting where he left it, Cas hefts the weight and steers it unsteadily, retracing its tracks in the dry forest floor.

“How did you get out here, anyway?” Cas asks. “You sweettalk the kid on watch into letting you through?”

Sam smiles as if to say _ha ha very funny._

Cas sighs. “You can’t wander off on your own, Sam. You know that.”

Sam’s lips pinch together, throat working. “Not a ch-child,” he mumbles. Sam, ever since he was rid of Lucifer, has only managed to utter a few words each day. It takes him some effort to get them out. He’s a slow talker when he does, in fact, talk. Sam, who used to recite Latin backwards, now slurs and stutters and mixes his words up. Five years stuffed inside an archangel will do that to a person. But he’s on his feet and, honestly, Sam is lucky things aren’t worse than they are.

“I know you’re not a child,” Cas says. “But it’s dangerous out here. You can’t wander around without a weapon, at least.”

Sam doesn’t say anything. Of course.

“Look. Next time you want to get out of camp, talk to me first.”

Cas stops. No sound of footsteps crunching the forest floor. There’s a feeling like static across his skin and his stomach drops even before he even turns around.

“Oh, fuck.”

Sam is a couple of meters behind, sprawled out on the ground, limbs twitching like he’s being electrocuted. Cas dumps the wheelbarrow and dashes back. Sam’s elbow whacks painfully against a thick tree root, a sharp _crack_ resounds through the forest. There isn’t much Cas can do to move him, so he shucks his jackets and balls it up, using it to pillow Sam’s head.

“ _This_ is why you can’t go anywhere on your own,” Cas grunts, pinning Sam’s flailing arm to his side to keep it from hitting the hard edge of the root again. Sam’s mouth is wide open, neck muscles straining, then his teeth suddenly clench together with a spray of spittle. The saliva that runs down the corner of his mouth is tinged pink.

“Are you done yet?” Cas asks. Sam continues to seize.

A minute or so later the jerking turns to twitching and it slowly lessens until Sam is limper than a dead fish. His good eye is half open and glazed over, the bandage on his other eye has jostled out of place and Cas can see scarring etching out from underneath. Because he’s curious, and an asshole, Cas peels the patch back and stares at the hole in Sam’s face.

He wasn’t there when it happened, but he did arrive in time for the aftermath. Dean had been breathing so hard Cas thought he might pass out, and on the ground at his feet was Sam, all dressed in white, a gaping wound where his left eye used to be, tunnelling straight to the back of his head. He was dead, then he wasn’t.

Cas has an inkling who’s responsible. His father has never been there, not when Lucifer was freed, not when the end of the world began, but he was happy to resurrect Sam Winchester. Apparently, the poor fuck hadn’t suffered enough. Cas thinks things might have been easier for Sam if he had just died. He’d deserved to finally rest after everything, but God had other plans.

Sam is still breathing when the seizure is over and Cas sags with relief. He pulls the bandage back over the empty socket and watches Sam’s good eye blink its way open, slow and lazy.

Cas pats his cheek. “Are you going to get on your feet, Sam?”

Sam closes his eye again, which might mean _no thanks I’d rather sleep here_. Well, tough. Cas jostles him, probably a little rougher than necessary, but it rouses Sam enough to get him sitting up. Sam tries to get his feet under him, but his legs are boneless and he falls back on his ass, trying his best to keep his eye open.

The wheelbarrow is still sitting where Cas left it. He tips all the chopped wood out onto the forest floor and steers it back around to Sam.

“Come on,” Cas grunts, pulling Sam up by his underarms. Sam’s knees shake and strain, but together they manage to get him in the wheelbarrow. Sam is skin and bones, but he still weighs a ton, and his damn endless legs make sure his feet scrape the ground.

Sam is out again, good eye shut and showing no signs of opening again, head flopped back and jostling with every bump along the forest floor. Cas drags him backwards all the way back to camp. Once he’s inside the gate he hopes he can get Sam to the med cabin without Dean noticing, but not much slips under Dean’s radar around here.

“What the hell happened?” he barks, striding over from where he and Risa were arguing by the chicken coop.

Cas pauses and sets the wheelbarrow down. Sam doesn’t even stir. Dean stops about a foot away from them and stares at Sam, Cas thinks he might see something akin to concern on his face but it’s quickly replaces with the furrowing of his brow.

“He had a fit,” Cas says, wiping sweat from his face with the back of his sleeve. His back is sore and his feet feel like they’re going to fall off. He’s been human for a while now, but he’s still not used to aches and pains.

“What happened to collecting wood?” Dean asks. He’s not looking at Sam anymore, is deliberately trying not to.

Cas shrugs. “Dumped it so I could get Sam back here,” he says. Dean’s jaw clenches so Cas quickly adds, “I’ll go back and get it later.”

“You’d better,” Dean warns, voice hard enough to scare anyone who isn’t Cas. Cas gives him a quick salute and takes the handles of the cart again, steering Sam down to the med cabin. Dean trails along beside him but makes no move to help. By the time the reach the cabin, and the stairs leading up to it, Dean has no choice to lend a hand.

Annie, a girl who was once a trainee veterinarian, occupies the cabin. She’s sitting with her feet up and clipping her nails when they enter. She gives a double take, the sight of the three of them has her bouncing to her feet. She ushers them behind a curtain where there’s a cot sitting empty. The three of them settle Sam onto it and Annie gets to work.

“Smacked his elbow?” she asks, examining the array of bruises that are already blooming there.

“Hard,” Cas says. “Heard a crack.”

“Hm,” Annie sits back and taps her chin thoughtfully. Dean is quiet, and when Cas turns around he isn’t there anymore. He doesn’t have to go far, finds him brooding on the porch. He decides it’s wise not to prod at an angry snake – or a pissed off Dean - and paces around the cabin instead. He can hear Annie’s puzzled _ums_ and _ahs_ on behind the curtain.

The medicine cabinet is open. There’s not much – they’ll need to make a run soon – but he can see an orange bottle with _morphine_ printed on the front. He’s holding it, next thing he knows, pushing down and twisting the cap.

“Don’t,” Dean says quietly, hand clapping down on his shoulder.

Reluctantly, Cas puts it back. “Only one,” he grumbles. “Just one, then I’m done.”

“Spoken like a true junkie.”

Cas turns around, shaking Dean’s hand off his shoulder. “You smell of alcohol.”

Dean smiles grimly. “It’s been a weird day.”

“Oh, did you also carry someone through the woods in a wheelbarrow?” Cas asks, eyebrow raised. Dean’s smile brightens and he even musters a laugh. Two Winchesters laughing in one day. Odd.

“No, nothing like that,” Dean says. He scratches the back of his head and clears his throat. “Risa’s pregnant.”

Cas blinks at him. “Risa’s _pregnant?”_

Dean grabs his shoulder and pulls him onto the porch. More than likely, Annie didn’t hear. She’s probably the most oblivious person Cas has ever met in thousands of years of existence.

“She told me this morning,” Dean says, scrubbing a hand over his mouth.

“Fuck, Dean,” Cas sighs. “This is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done.”

“Not like I did it on purpose,” Dean snaps, defensive. He’s staring at Cas like he used to, back when Cas had the juice to actually make a difference. Cas can’t do anything, he’s about as useful as a lightbulb without electricity. He can’t keep Dean and Risa’s baby safe.

Dean still looks panicked so Cas tries to come up with something that might sound comforting.

“Babies are… cute. And the human population is low so you’re are contributing saving the species.”

Dean glares at him. “This kid doesn’t stand a chance in this crap-hole of a world. You seriously think _anyone_ should be raising a baby? Especially me. I’m not cut out to be a dad.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Cas says honestly. “If anyone could protect this child, it’s you. And Risa, that woman’s a force to be reckoned with.”

Dean snorts. “Sure. Thanks for the help,” he says, not sounding all that grateful.

He turns away and marches down the steps, heading across camp where Risa is waiting for him with her arms folded over her chest. Cas can hear shouting in the next moment and decides to head back inside.

“No broken bones,” Annie tells him, “but I did bandage his elbow anyway. And I cleaned some scrapes here and there. He bit his tongue, it’s nasty but it’ll heal. He’ll sleep for a while, and he’ll be sore when he wakes up, but he’ll be okay.”

“Thanks,” Cas says. Annie goes back to whatever it was she was doing earlier and Cas slips behind the curtain. He plonks into the wooden chair by the bed. His hands are shaking and the one thing that will make it stop, he can’t have. No one told him how much it hurt to be human, even just the little things. He’ll have to find where Dean stashes his liquor.

A couple of hours later, Sam finally stirs. He spends a good few minutes staring at nothing, still blank-eyed and pale, then his eye focuses and finds its way to Cas, brow furrowing in a question.

“Another fit,” Cas answers. “I had to haul your gigantic ass all the way back in the wheelbarrow. Left all the firewood behind. Remember I was saying you can’t go wandering off on your own?”

Sam looks away, fingers clenching and unclenching the blanket draped over him. His eye is wet and he swallows, trying to keep any tears from falling. Another side-effect of archangel possession and having a knife shoved through his face; Sam gets emotional. He cries a lot about all sorts of things, big and small. Guilt, one of Cas’ least favourite feelings, is worming its way into his gut and making him feel queasy.

“Sorry,” he says, and Sam finally looks at him again. “I wasn’t – I’m not mad at you. I’m worried, okay? Don’t wander off on your own like that.”

Sam smiles, throat working. “You. T-talk like Dean uuused t-to,” he says.

“Guess I picked up some habits from him,” Cas says, shrugging. His hands shake a little harder and he pins them between his thighs. Sam watches.

“Can I ask you something?” Cas says. “Addict to addict.”

Sam frowns. It’s unsure if he’ll have a good answer. His memory is patchy at best.

 “Do you ever stop wanting it? Does it ever go away?”

Sam looks up, pins him with a red-rimmed eye for a moment. Cas thinks maybe Sam understood, that he remembered his past enough to know what Cas is talking about, but then Sam bursts into tears. He pushes a couple of his fingers into his mouth and probes at his tongue.

“Hurts,” he complains, voice muffled by his hand.

Cas sighs. It’s difficult to tell with Sam how much he remembers or how well he processes things. Sometimes, like earlier in the forest, he seems a lot like the Sam he was before. And there are times like now, when Sam is barely there, his brain struggling to keep up. It could be the aftereffects of the seizure muddling his mind. Maybe. Cas gently takes Sam’s wrist and pulls his hand from his mouth. His fingers are wet and sticky with saliva, and Cas wipes them off on the blanket.

“I know it hurts, but poking at it won’t help,” he says. “It’ll heal, and this time next week you probably won’t remember biting your tongue at all.”

Sam sniffs and rubs at his wet nose with the back of his hand. The tears are still falling, breaths hitching, but the way his eye drifts aimlessly around the room says that he isn’t entirely sure why he’s crying. Cas stays with him until he’s asleep again.

The sun has set when he leaves the med cabin. The sky is bright with stars, a smattering of dust shining across the black. The camp is difficult to navigate in the dark, but he can see one fire burning a few yards away, it’s a small one without the wood Cas left behind. He hears the soft murmur of people chatting, the clink of cups and plates as they feast on something that is probably too little.

He finds Dean sitting on the porch of his cabin, a bottle of whiskey and two glasses in hand. Without a word, he pours the liquor and hands a glass over to Cas.

“Where’s Risa?” Cas asks.

The corner of Dean’s mouth curls up unpleasantly. “She doesn’t want to see me right now.”

“Ah,” Cas says, taking a seat beside Dean on the step. He sips at the whiskey, the first drop down his throat is a relief. “I was thinking about raiding your cabin for this,” he admits.

Dean snorts. “Well, as long as you aren't stealing medicine.”

They sit for a long moment, just drinking, before Cas speaks again. “Sam’s going to be fine. He’s a little hurt, but it’s nothing bad.”

Dean doesn’t say anything.

“You need to forgive him,” says Cas.

“I don’t need to do anything.”

“He needs you. He misses you.”

“I can’t, Cas,” Dean sighs. “At least not right now.”

“Why? Is it because he said yes? Is it because he’s different now? What is it?”

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean snaps. The conversation is over. Cas gets to his feet, glass in hand, and heads inside for the night, leaving Dean to his thoughts on the front porch.

 

* * *

 

Sam is already up by the time Cas wakes in the morning. In fact, everyone in the camp is already up and working. Cas lays in bed that morning, half naked and drenched in sweat, feeling heavy and sick in every nerve. It takes half an hour to muster the energy to get on his feet.

He finds Sam where he usually is, in the garden. Like most of the crops, the vegetable garden is withered, the produce is soured by the drought. It doesn’t stop Sam from coming back each day to tend carefully to the plants. He’s gently dribbling water from a plastic bottle over the fullest and greenest shrub, tip of his tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. Cas wonders if the pain from biting it the day before has resided. Or maybe Sam just doesn’t notice it.

“You know we don’t have enough water, right?” Cas says. Sam startles, nearly dropping the bottle and spilling its contents. Miraculously, he manages to catch it. “That plant is going to die eventually, Sam. It’s a waste.”

Sam shakes his head and returns his attention back to the plant. He brushes his fingers against the leaves, then reaches in and gently pushes a branch aside. There’s one small orange flower hanging between a few withering leaves. Cas moves closer and crouches down. Sam smiles, gently stroking the soft petals, the pads of his fingers moving delicately like he’s worried he might hurt it. He does this a lot, the garden and the plants within it seem to make him happy, the colours and the shapes and the textures. So much life and vibrancy. Cas can understand the fascination, especially with this flower.

“Odd,” he says. It’s all he can say. Plants have been dying under the relentless sun for weeks, but here is this tiny thing, fighting to bloom. He leans in closer and sees the small bud beneath the petals, what will one day be a pomegranate fruit. Or it would be, but the drought won’t let it last that long. It will break Sam when the plant dies.

It’s probably to prepare him for it now.

“The plant’s going to dry up like the rest of them, Sam.”

Sam smiles like he knows something Cas doesn’t.

 

* * *

 

A month goes by uneventfully. Well, as uneventful as anything can be at the end of the world. They found a good stock of supplies in the back of an abandoned truck a couple of weeks ago and they’ve all been eating well ever since. They know it won’t last, the anticipation of the inevitable hunger weighs on the camp, but it’s nice to enjoy it for now. A few days ago, they went on a run into the nearest town and came face-to-face with a pack of Croats. They lost a couple of men, but that’s nothing out of the ordinary. People die. Everyone moves on. They’re prepared for that sort of thing.

On the plus side, Cas found a shit-load of cigarettes that day.

Dean and Risa have been doing a little better – they don’t yell at each other every second of the day anymore, reducing fights to at least once a week. Everyone in camp knows about the baby by now. Everyone but Sam. Dean still mostly pretends Sam isn’t there, which is a difficult thing to do considering the size of him.

And Sam. Sam seems blissfully unaware of a lot of things. His shived brain tends to dip in and out of awareness of its own accord. One day, Sam is interacting with people like he’s the Sam before – although a lot quieter – and the next day he has trouble lifting a spoon. Seizures pop up out of nowhere, and even if Cas can tell one’s coming before anyone else can, it still feels like a shock when Sam drops like a stone and shakes like a live wire.

He’s taken to sleeping in Cas’ cabin, or even sometimes in Cas’ bed. Maybe he likes the comfort of someone being close, or maybe he’s just being an asshole and taking up all the room. It’s especially annoying when Cas brings a girl back, only to find Sam fast asleep and curled up in the middle of the bed like a goddamn housecat. So, Cas keeps Sam fed and rested, smokes as often as he can, and tries his best not to lose the will to live.

One afternoon, Dean decides to gather a group of capable men and women to take to the nearest town in search of supplies. Cas is on the list to go. Risa is not. This sends her and Dean into another shouting match, and Cas figures he has some time before they have to leave.

He collects the rest of his ammo from the cabin, double checks the gun on his belt, then heads over to the garden in search of Sam. It’s blisteringly hot and Cas’ cheeks are already burning, the weather still won’t let up, sucking the moisture out of anything and everything it can find, and a lot of the plants have died. Still, Sam comes back each day to take care of them. Cas isn’t sure he’s ever seen someone so determined. He’s on his knees, leaning close and whispering softly to the only living shrub in the patch.

“Don’t sit out in the sun all day, alright?” Cas says.

Sam tilts his head and blinks at him.

“And make sure you drink something,” Cas adds. “If you have a fit, it’ll be your own fault.”

Sam clumsily pats a plastic bottle half-filled with water that sits by his feet, then he breaks into a smile and waves Cas closer. With a sigh, Cas obliges.

With a lot of enthusiastic pointing, Sam gestures to a single branch where a little orange flower used to bloom. Now, in its place is a large pomegranate, deep red and swollen. Cas stares at it for a moment, just to be sure he’s really seeing what he thinks he is. Cas hasn’t believed in miracles for a long time, but a single fruit growing in spite of a relentless drought is down to more than just chance.

Sam gives the branch a gentle shake and the pomegranate drops onto the wilted soil with a soft _thud_ , then he collects it into his hands gently as if it were a baby bird, holding it close to his chest.

“And what are you going to do with that?” Cas asks. Sam isn’t the sort to keep things for himself, more likely he’d share it with the entire camp, one seed per person. But Sam keeps a firm grip on the fruit and climbs carefully to his feet, he doesn’t spare another glance at Cas as he heads back to camp. In Dean’s direction, Cas realises. He has to jog a little to keep up with Sam’s long strides, and he’s right there on his tail when he catches sight of Dean’s face.

Dean looks at Sam like he’s alien, similar to the way he looked at Cas when they first met. Like he’s something strange and a little frightening. He jolts back when Sam holds out the pomegranate in his hands. Dean glances at the fruit, then to Sam, then to Cas.

Sam nudges the pomegranate closer to Dean, a look on his face something akin to a mix of pure hope and desperate need. His good eye is bright under the midday sun, and Cas can see more of Sam in there than he has in a long time. It’s clear what this pomegranate signifies, the way Sam holds it out as delicately as if he were offering it to a god.

It’s a way to mend their relationship. It’s a way to make things right. It’s something Sam has nurtured to full health despite the inhospitable conditions surrounding it. It’s all Sam has to give.

It’s not enough.

Dean turns away.

Surprisingly, Sam grabs his shoulder. Everyone around has gone quiet and still. The tension is heavy as the stifling air. Dean shoves Sam away and the pomegranate flies out of his grip, and the look of pure terror on Sam’s face is enough to break Cas’ heart into a million pieces. He lunges forward and catches it before it smashes against the ground.

“It’s a gift for you, Dean,” Cas says, placing the fruit back into Sam’s palm.

“I don’t want it,” Dean replies.

Sam holds the pomegranate close to his chest like a child with a comfort blanket.

“Take it,” Cas says, voice steady and firm.

“No.”

“Why?”

“I don’t need it. What the hell am I going to do with it? It’s useless.”

“ _Dean.”_

“No!” Dean snaps, voice sharp and dangerous enough to make even Cas flinch. Without even looking in Sam direction, he turns around and marches away. “Everyone with me. We’re heading out.”

Cas can’t move for a moment. He can see Sam’s shoulders shaking out of the corner of his eye, and when he turns to face him he sees tears streaming down one side of his face. Sam tries to wipe them away with his hand, but only succeeds in covering the bandage over his left eye in dirt.

Cas knows what it feels like to be forsaken by your family. To be cast out of your home. To be made less than you are.

He reaches out and places a hand on Sam’s shoulder, steadying him. Sam doesn’t look at him, only stares down at the pomegranate in his hand like he can’t figure out what’s wrong with it. All this time spent on his hands and knees in the dirt, coaxing this fruit out of its bud. All of it was for Dean, and it meant nothing.

The trucks are heading out and Cas has no choice but to leave.

 

* * *

 

It’s quiet and, naturally, everyone is on edge. They roll slowly through town, a small residence a few miles from camp. It’s deserted, like everywhere is. Weeds sprout up through cracks in the sidewalk, shop windows are caked with grime and dust, the streets are crowded with the remnants of panic. It’s deserted. Still, it shouldn’t be so quiet.

Croats usually come charging at the sound of a running engine, but there’s nothing.

“Maybe they all died,” someone whispers. It’s the kid who guarded the gate the other day. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, but he’s younger than everyone else here. The gun across his knee is out of place beneath the softness of his face.

“Maybe, but it’s unlikely,” Dean says from the driver’s seat. “They’ll be waiting around somewhere. Keep your eyes open, kid.”

He pulls into an empty parking lot surrounding a supermarket. A line of shopping carts stand as a barrier in front of the entrance, and spray painted on the wall is a verse from the bible.

_And the God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast._

Each word, long-dried dripping paint and scrawled lettering, makes Cas’ chest tighten a little more with anger. God is not coming, he wants to tell the person who wrote this. God is not here.

Inside, Dean doesn’t let Cas search for medicine, instead he’s sent in search of water. Most of the aisles have been cleared out. He finds a pack of toilet paper and shoves it to the bottom of his backpack. It makes him think of Chuck, strangely. Chuck was a strange man. Only God knows what happened to him.

Cas carries on down the aisles. He finds a box of energy bars, a few tins of baked beans, and a couple of litre bottles of water. He comes across an aisle which is still mostly intact, filled with soft pinks and blues. Cas adds a couple of dummies, baby bottles, blankets and diapers to his pack.

They leave relatively happy, everyone but Dean and Cas. Dean is never happy. Cas is on edge. It’s like he can feel something, soft as a breeze, static in the air. Something is wrong.

“We need to get back to camp,” he tells Dean. “We need to go now.”

Dean still trusts him enough to take him at his word, it seems, because the colour suddenly drains from his face and everyone’s being ordered to head home.

They hear gunshots first. Followed by screaming. The gate into camp is bent and half off its hinges, there’s blood spattered across the dirt tracks. Dean floors it down the road, slamming the breaks hard enough to nearly throw Cas out of his seat, then he’s out the truck and running into the chaos.

There are Croats everywhere. Some go down against a hail of bullets, but most of them are relentless. Cas lifts his gun and aims, getting one just before it takes the gate kid out from behind. Another one of them comes sailing at him and he fires a few rounds into its chest before it finally goes down, Cas throws his arm over his face against a spray of blood. In the distance, he can see Dean with a tight hold on Risa’s hand, pushing her behind him as he fires at the infected.

There’s a strange human emotion Cas can’t find a name for. It’s similar to the stomach-dropping sensation of miscalculating your steps in the dark. The knowledge that you’re about to fall, that everything is about to go wrong and there’s nothing to be done about it.

All around him, people are fighting and dying. He was created for war, he was built to fight, that’s what angels do. He might be just bones and flesh now, but he can do something. He lifts his gun, focuses, aims, and kills one, two, three Croats. Three less, but it seems like there are more.

It’s something small that catches his eye. A pomegranate split in half, seeds spilling out, a portion of it ground under boots into the dirt. Sam. He needs to find Sam.

Sam, who sees only half as well as everyone else, who struggles to grip a spoon sometimes, who forgets where he is some days, who can’t protect himself. Cas breaks into a run. He’s heading for the garden when a high shriek rings out across the camp and he comes skidding to a halt, dust kicking up in the air.

Another scream sounds, and another. The children. He can see them making a dash for the cabin that serves as a school house, right on their tail is Sam, and behind him are five of the infected. Cas can barely breathe, but he runs and runs as fast as he can. He can barely feel through the numbness of his feet, but he keeps running.

As he gets closer, he sees one of the girls has reached the cabin and she’s yanking desperately, and unsuccessfully, on the door handle. Cas pauses to aim; the barrel of the gun follows one of the Croats. They’re moving too fast, he can’t get a clear shot. He pulls the trigger, he misses. He keeps running.

When he gets there, Sam is standing with his arms out wide, seven children cowering behind him. The look on his face is one of pure fury, a look in his eye that holds as much power and confidence as the demon blood once gave him. A Croat lunges and Sam charges, catching it around the middle and hurling it back down the steps. Then, they’re all pouncing at him, and Sam’s a big man but he doesn’t stand a chance against five.

Cas raises his weapon, but he can’t get a clear shot without risking shooting Sam or one of the kids.

A Croat grabs hold of Sam’s hair, yanks it hard enough to elicit a cry of pain, then rams his head straight into the wall. Sam stumbles back, but manages to catch himself on the cabin’s railing, fresh blood flowing down the centre of his face. More of them latch onto him, yanking on his arm and legs until he goes down on his back.

Cas yells, “Hey! Over here!”

A couple of the Croats turn their attention towards him, and Cas manages to get a clear shot right before they come barrelling in his direction.

The kids are all crying, watching with terrified little faces as the last three Croats swarm against Sam. Cas hears a _crack_ , the distinct sound of a bone snapping, followed by Sam’s voice yelling itself raw. Cas is up on the cabin porch, vaulting the railing and hurling himself at the Croats. It’s a dumb move, but it’s pure instinct more than clear thinking.

He takes two down with the last of his bullets, then unsheathes his knife and disposes of the third. Then, everything is quiet. The kids stare at the mess he’s made. None of them can do anything but weep quietly. He breaks the lock on the cabin door and ushers them inside. Sam is unmoving, his eye is closed, the bandage over his other eye has come away to reveal the hideous scarred hole in his face. Cas crouches down beside Sam.

“You’d better not be dead,” he says. He surprises himself when something warm and wet slips down his cheek. Sam’s face is almost unrecognisable underneath the blood. Head wounds always look worse than they are, Cas reminds himself. He presses his fingers to Sam’s neck. He finds a pulse, fast and throbbing.

Sam’s elbow, the same one he smacked in the woods a month or so ago, is clearly broken, the joint is bending at an odd angle. His shirt has been ripped open and his chest is covered in scratches, red and raised, some bleeding. His knuckles are bruised. A couple of ribs are broken. There’s a slice on his collar bone, smeared with blood, where the Croats tried to infect him.

But he’s breathing. He’s breathing, and that’s what matters.

 

* * *

 

 

They lost twenty-seven people. They drive far away to build the pyre, and Cas loses count of how many bodies they burn. When they light it up, Cas and Dean are the only ones not to weep. No words are said, no memorial is built. You burn your dead, and you move on. Focus on the living.

They drive back to camp, smoke rising up into the sky behind them. The air tastes of ash, it clings to their hair, their clothes, their skin.

Cas spends the rest of the day fixing the gate. The rebuild it higher and thicker and stronger.

When everyone sits down to a silent meal, Cas makes his way to the med cabin. So many people were injured that Annie is running from cabin to cabin at all hours of the day. There are several cots, each bearing someone who was a little too slow the day before, bloody, bandaged and stitched. Cas is about to duck behind the curtain where he knows Sam is resting, but the sound of Dean’s voice halts him.

“Slow sips, little brother.”

It’s quiet then, and Cas can imagine the confused look on Sam’s face.

“All the kids told me what you did,” Dean says. “You saved them all. Messed yourself up doing it.” He sighs. “I’m sorry, Sam. I just – I don’t understand why you did it. Why did you say yes?”

Sam, of course, doesn’t answer. Cas thinks maybe no one will ever know why Sam did it. Not really. But Cas remembers his brother, Lucifer could be persuasive when he wanted to be.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says again. “The way I treated you – I thought you deserved it. I was wrong. I just. I want you to be okay. I was scared. And you know me, you know it’s hard for me to admit. I thought I hated you, but when I heard you were hurt. Sam, I was terrified. I’ve been so goddamn pissed at you, I couldn’t think straight.”

“M’s-sorry,” Sam croaks.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Me too. I’m sorry I haven’t been there. I always promised I would be, and you’ve needed me but I wasn’t - I was just so pissed. Ruby, the demon blood, Lucifer. It wasn’t your fault, not really. I know that now. Maybe if I hadn’t sent you away, things would have turned out different.”

“Don’t,” Sam says. And then, with a smile in his voice, “B-baby.”

“You know about that? Yeah, you would have figured it out, wouldn’t you? Sorry I didn’t tell you… Look, Sam. Things aren’t just going to be how they were before, but we can be brothers again. I’ve missed you. When you said yes to Lucifer, I thought you were gone. I thought I’d never see you again. Then, I get you back. I didn’t realise until today, when you saved the kids, that you’re the same Sam you were before.”

Cas could have told Dean that. He’s been telling Dean for months. People don’t always see what’s right in front of them, Cas has learned. He leaves before he intrudes any further, and sits down on the top step outside the med cabin.

It’s darker, the air feels colder. He looks up and for a second he thinks he’s seeing the smoke blowing over from the pyre, but it’s the clouds drifting grey and lazy overhead. He can feel it coming, he can already smell the tang earth, like it’s straining to meet the rain before its even fallen.

Cas gets to his feet, slips a cigarette between his lips and lights it up. He steps onto the ground just as the first drop falls, a gentle splash on the tip of his nose. And just like that, like a seam ripping wide open, rain falls.


End file.
